It's 1:57 am

It's almost two. I had dinner at a restaurant in Little Italy that, for reasons I can't fathom, permitted smoking. It was like living in Blacksburg, Va.--a thought that makes the mind reel.

I probably had a good deal to say but I've forgotten it.

It must have had something to do with the Virginia Cavaliers, up fourteen at the half, dropping the Gator Bowl to a bunch of rednecks from Texas.

Remind me to tell you it's two o'clock.

I, like the English Muffin I had for breakfast, am toasted. Completely. Almost blackened, if we're talking metaphors.

I'm blackened. I'm channeling that guy who sang "Mammy." I'm that toasted. Plus, for the first time in about three weeks, I've not been to the studio. You may think twenty or so consecutive days would speak for itself. Me? I'm disappointed. Had hoped to string together a few more.

Remind me to tell you about the steak I never got at Lmos.